


The Games We Play

by Maple_Fay



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, F/M, Post-ASiB
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-03
Updated: 2014-01-03
Packaged: 2018-01-07 07:01:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1116899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maple_Fay/pseuds/Maple_Fay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post 2x01, Sherlock/Irene. He can't get over it, not quite - and she's not making it any easier for him.<br/>(Re-posted from another site upon my friend's request.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this story in the week after ASiB aired, fighting with a terrible flu. It's obviously completely AU to everything post-ASiB, but I hope you'll still find it to your liking.  
> Feedback is love. Thanks for reading!

"Run!" he says, and she does.

It takes him a while to clean the whole thing up—he knows Mycroft will be looking into it particularly carefully after the last time—but he's in no hurry.

He knows he'll catch up with her in the nearby town before he'd have to get on the plane and head back to England.

When he does reach the town, however, he doesn't see her, nor any clue regarding her whereabouts, no matter how carefully he looks.

He's at the airport, it's time to board and he's clutching his phone in a palm that's, regrettably, slightly sweaty.

She never calls, nor texts.

As he switches the thing off, he decides he'd done everything he could. He no longer has her number, he can't contact her now.

The ball is in her court.

* * *

Six months later, he's walking home with John, dead tired after a day of looking for a kidnapped five-year-old (still no sign of the child anywhere), and seeing black spots in front of his eyes from hunger and exhaustion.

"Let's have dinner," John says as they pass the Chinese shop at the corner of Baker Street. The place smells quite heavenly.

He refuses to go in and ingest something that is not a nicotine patch but actual food, protein, carbohydrates, vitamins and minerals.

He refuses, and heads home to place another patch on his forearm—only because of the words John used.

After several hours of tossing and turning in his bed, he comes to a conclusion. He's being irrational, and something must be done about it. He's Sherlock Holmes, for his sake ( _You believe in a higher power—in this case, yourself_ ), and this has to stop. Immediately.

On the following morning, he has a rich, balanced breakfast, courtesy of Mrs. Hudson, and heads out.

He finds the missing child within hours.

Everything seems to be back to normal.

* * *

It irritates him to no end that the whole thing is way out of his hands now, that he knows nothing about her while she is probably aware of everything that goes on in his life, thanks to John's blog, of course. She _must_ be reading it, that much is certain.

She never makes use of that knowledge, though—and it only fuels his bad moods even further, making him impossible to coexist with, or so everybody starts telling him.

He simply shrugs and goes on as before.

* * *

Three months later the Morstan Case, or the 'How John met Mary' case, comes over, and he's the first to realize those two are meant for each other.

He tells John about it and gets laughed at, only to be apologized to and asked to be best man at their wedding several weeks later. He graciously accepts, feeling smug about being right _again_.

The feeling's completely gone a week afterwards, when John informs him cheerfully, Mary's hand in his, that they'd found him a date for the wedding.

"I don't want a date. I don't _need_ a date."

"Oh, come on, Sherlock," Mary smiles at him, and for the first time since he'd known her he thinks her not only annoying, like any other human being, but straightforwardly repulsive. "Beth's a real treat: nice, intelligent, funny—you may actually have fun with her."

"Didn't John tell you? I don't do fun," he spats and marches off to his room, furious: at her, at himself, he no longer knows.

John finds him there (moping in quite un-Sherlocky a manner) some time later. He leans against the doorframe and looks at him, just looks, for several long minutes.

" _What?_ "

"It's been months, Sherlock. You need to get over it."

"There is nothing to get over."

"Sherlock—"

"Didn't you have a wedding to plan?" He all but closes the door in his face.

* * *

In the evening, he opens his laptop to try and search for her again—any type of scandal, affair or power play that could give him a clue as to her whereabouts. Nothing pops out of the browser window, as per usual: but there's a message from an unknown address waiting in his mailbox. The username is 'lkjhgf', which means absolutely nothing: just a sequence upon the keyboard. He still knows it's from her.

_Looking at a sleeping old man, v. peaceful. I wonder how you sleep when you're not drugged._

Could be a mere observation, could be a hint. He enters the phrase 'sleeping old man' into Google, ends up with lots and lots of rubbish. Checks incoming mail properties: transferred to his account after being bumped off servers in Pakistan, Ukraine and Peru, and some before that, virtually untraceable. Stares out of the window for an hour.

When he finally types his answer, it's short and impersonal, but oh so him: _Sleep is dull_.

He waits for an hour or so, hoping to get another email, but then just shrugs and goes to bed.

He sleeps very well indeed.

* * *

_Sleep is never dull. When asleep, people are at their most vulnerable. I would've thought you found it a useful tool in your work._

It's been four days since the first message when this comes, at 11:27 AM, the server sequence completely different than before. This time, he checks it on his phone, frowning slightly. He all but lost hope for a second contact coming before the year was over.

_You are wrong,_ he types, and then: _I don't particularly care about such things_ , and drops the phone in his pocket.

"Who was that from? Mycroft again?" John's been trying on suits for an hour now, and the experience has proven to be the most difficult one he'd had to date. He'd much rather be texted by his insufferable brother and forced to trace a gang of shark fin smugglers, or chase Jim Moriarty till the ends of the Earth, than sit in a dressing room and provide opinion (which he doesn't, by the way, not really) on his colleague's wedding outfit.

"Just spam," he answers, and the phone vibrates against his right thigh.

_You seem bored._

And he _is_ , unfortunately, so he decides to play along. Who knows when she'll write to him next? _Just choosing a wedding suit. Disaster approaching._

Two minutes, seven seconds later: _John looks best in navy blue. Your world has been saved._

John emerges from behind the curtain, a hideous pale green jacket making him look like a three-day victim of drowning. "What'd you think?"

"I think you might want to try that one next," he nods in the direction of a rack upon which a stylish navy blue suit hangs, waiting patiently to be chosen from among the reds, blacks and purples. John frowns, but picks up the garment and disappears back into the changing room. He lets out a sigh and rubs the heels of his hands against his eyes.

_If you're wrong about it, I'll make you pay._ He's entered her domain now, which is probably a mistake, but the need of a thrill is winning him over, making him restless, reckless, everything he shouldn't be with her.

Surely enough, she answers right away. _Promises, promises. You wouldn't know where to start. Besides, I'm right._

She is: John comes out again, beaming, and finally resembling a human being. "Not bad," he tells him curtly, and moves his thumb across the keyboard. _Yes, you are. I take it back._

_Naughty boy_ , she writes some time later, just as he parts with John in front of a restaurant in which Mary awaits her fiancé, _leaving me all alone in this nasty place after making such sweet suggestions. Shame on you, Mr. Holmes._

He stares at the ceiling, pondering. Can he? Should he? Oh, to hell with that! _Is that an invitation?_

His phone remains silent for the rest of the day, the week, the month.

* * *

Three weeks until John's wedding.

There hasn't been a decent case around for ages.

Whenever he picks up his violin, he thinks about _her_ and plays that same piece he'd composed last year over and over again, before tossing the instrument back into its case.

The lab makes him crazy. Lestrade makes him crazy. Mycroft, John, Mary, Molly, Mrs. Hudson—everybody makes him nothing but angry and irritated.

He needs problems, challenges, work: anything to occupy his mind, to make the cogs turn again.

Sometimes he almost loses it, and thinks about writing to her. _Almost_ being the operative word.

When he finally hears from her, it's the middle of the night, and he's having some highly inappropriate dream he can't remember after the vibration of his phone wakes him up. _What are you thinking about?_

_What a stupid thing to ask,_ he replies, and dismisses all thoughts of going back to sleep, even though his body protests weakly, apparently still dreaming the dream.

_Who are you taking to the wedding, then?_ He frowns at the sudden change of the topic, it's not what he'd expect from her at this point.

_Why do you assume I am taking anyone at all?_

_Aren't you? Oh, poor boy. Perhaps I should come over, keep you company._

This is definitely new. He sits up, sheet pooling around his waist, hairs on his chest standing up as the breeze from the half-opened window washes over his body. _Never thought you'd find it appealing. A suburban wedding, collective IQ of the guests not reaching five digit numbers._

_We could burn the place to the ground just by trying to have a decent conversation with random unsuspecting in-laws._

They sure could, which is why this is such a bad idea—and a tempting one, too. _Promised John I'd behave._

_Dull._

And then, before he's had the time to press 'Reply': _Let me know if you change your mind. You know I'm only good at MISbehaving._

He stays awake until the morning, four nicotine patches lined up on his arm.

* * *

She sends him a picture of a flower two days later: a cut red hyacinth on a white sheet of paper (judging from the light dispersion, probably something thick, used by artists rather than kindergarten children).

He promptly checks it online—the basic meaning of hyacinth could be 'game', or 'games'; this particular shade was also associated with 'play'.

_Who's bored now?_ , he types, and presses 'Enter' with a smirk.

_Guilty as charged, for once. Still no date, I presume?_

His smile grows wider. _Jealous, are we?_

_Interested in my feelings, are we?_

_What I am is stagnant. Nothing of interest happens here._

There's a longer pause after that, so long he almost loses hope for an answer to come before he'd have to go out on some wedding related business or other. He's putting his coat on when his laptop beeps, signalling a new message has been delivered.

_If I didn't know you any better, I would've thought you've missed me. Now get out, you're already late._

He doesn't question the fact that she obviously knows all about his plans for the day. He simply shuts his computer, and leaves, the back of his neck tingling for the entire afternoon as if someone's out there watching him.

Which is probably true, he realizes as he walks into a pub where the stag party is supposed to be held; he had nothing to do with it, of course, despite being the best man—Lestrade took it upon himself, and judging from the noise level, and the difficulty with which Mike keeps his balance, he's done a bang up job. Sherlock sits in the corner and orders some water with a slice of lime, not in the mood to end up dead drunk in case he gets another message later in the evening. _She_ would probably know when he wasn't at his wittiest, and played it against him.

So there he is, perched on a bar stool and pointedly ignoring some giggling females crowding to his left, eyes fixed upon John and the others, but mind wandering around the fact that Irene Adler is most definitely keeping a close eye on him. How does she do it? Security cameras, perhaps? Would she know how to operate a system like that? The thought makes him sit a little straighter, shoulders pushed back, his shirt falling open at the throat. Is she watching him _now_? What does she think?

Questions, ideas, problems: that's what he knows, what he thrives on.

The Woman provides him with all of the above.

His phone vibrates, just as one of the giggling females slides off her seat and saunters towards him with a glass in her hand. He fishes the gadget out of his trousers pocket, and opens the message.

_Careful now, woman on a prowl. No wonder though, you look quite dashing tonight. Let's have dinner._

He brushes his fingers on the underside of his wrist. _I'm not hungry._

She answers almost instantly, replaying their conversation from Baker Street, all those months ago: _Good._

And a set of coordinates. He checks them hastily as he gets up and shrugs on his jacket.

The Grand Hotel, Trafalgar Square.

This could be really interesting.

* * *

**TBC?...**


	2. Chapter 2

He's been here several times before, helping the Yard solve a few theft-slash-murder-slash-both cases, so the clerk recognizes him the moment he walks through the door.

"Mr. Holmes, a message for you," he smiles politely, and hands him an envelope (standard issue hotel stationery, no perceivable smell) before turning away to another visitor. Nobody pays him any attention as he carefully takes out a single sheet of paper.

He'd put his money on her renting out a presidential suite, or something of a similar grandeur, but the three-digit number written hastily (blue pen, most likely provided by the hotel) in the very middle of the paper tells him (he'd memorized the layout of the building long ago) that it's in fact a studio with a kitchenette attached, located in the far end of the East wing: a solution that's much more simple and severe, and yet allows the dweller greater independence, something she'd surely appreciate. He crumples the paper into a ball and stuffs it deep into his pocket as he bypassed the elevator and takes the stairs two at a time.

The manner in which he'd climbed up five floors is (probably) the reason behind his slightly elevated pulse and breath catching in his throat as he walks down the corridor towards her door. He knocks—three fast, short taps—and waits, hands pushed into his pockets, elbows stuck out in a defiant pose.

There's a rustle and a creak, and then she opens the door.

Quickly he takes inventory, eyes roaming all over her: hair pulled back, no make-up; skin a little paler than he'd remembered, glowing in low light seeping from behind her; fingernails cut uncharacteristically short, no polish; wearing a thick, black sweater with too long sleeves falling past the wrists, hand-made by somebody who clearly had no previous experience in knitting, and jeans; feet bare, toenails coated with magenta polish.

She looks tired, but composed and watchful as she waits for him to complete the 'scan'. "Are you going to come in?"

He realizes he'd missed her voice, low and velvety, and covers his confusion over the fact with a blink. "Perhaps I'd better. Wouldn't want any undesirable people noticing you." He steps forward decidedly, inhaling as he passes her. She smells of chocolate, liquorice and anise—a strangely fitting combination.

She snorts and closes the door behind him, putting the lock and chain in place. It makes him feel something akin to anticipation. "Nobody knows I'm here—nobody except you, that is, and you're already in too deep to turn me over to the authorities, aren't you? By the way, how's your _dear_ brother?"

"Fine," he answers curtly, not wanting to discuss Mycroft, of all the things, with _her_ , of all the people. He takes in the room: impersonal, brownish furniture, queen-size bed, small table with two chairs, a dresser, the kitchenette separated by a long, wooden counter. Thick, chocolate brown curtains are closed, the only light in the room comes from a line of weak bulbs under the hood of the electric stove. The carpeted floor is almost black, making Irene's feet look like pale fish as she walks in front of him, rounding the counter.

"I have mulled wine," she says, not meeting his eyes. "Would you like some?"

"You've been to Eastern Europe? Austria? Galicia?" he asks, sitting down on a stool opposite her. She glances at him, eyes sparkling with mirth.

"You're quite eager to fill in the empty pages, aren't you? Not so fast; we have all the time in the world."

He doesn't agree with that assessment, but understands the sentiment behind it. "Wine would be nice, thank you."

He observes closely as she pulls two mugs out of the cupboard and switches on the stove, a pot already on it. She moves sparingly and purposefully, hands steady and white. She's yet to touch him, to acknowledge the tension that has been building between them practically since the moment they'd first laid their eyes on each other; the way she treats him, impersonal and cold, paradoxically makes him relax: this is something he knows, something he can relate to. If she's doing it on purpose, to making him feel at ease, he doesn't know—but it's a generous thing to do, and he's grateful.

Another quick look around the room. There aren't too many personal objects on display: a duffel bag resting on the suitcase rack, a thick book wrapped in a newspaper page on the desk, a computer—ultra-thin laptop, undoubtedly chosen for its lightness and small dimensions, so that she could carry it inconspicuously in her handbag—next to it. The bed looks freshly made despite the late hour. The kitchenette is impeccably tidy, except for an empty wine bottle (a special blend one would use when making Glühwein) and a half-used packet of spice which she must have added to the pot beforehand.

The contents of the pot smells quite good, and he feels saliva flowing into his mouth, making him swallow hard. Irene looks up at him and quirks her brow with a smirk, but doesn't comment.

In a few minutes, the drinks are ready, and she hands him one of the steaming mugs as she climbs onto a stool on her side of the counter. "Cheers."

The mugs bump gently, and they raise them to their respective mouths, taking a sip at the exact same moment, focused eyes holding the other's gaze. It's hot, sweet and spicy, and Sherlock knows it's going to go straight to his head.

Somehow, in this room, with this woman, it's the most appropriate drink he could possibly have.

"So, you've come back," he states evenly after a moment of easy silence. "Intend to stay in London for a while?"

"Actually, I'm leaving tomorrow," she answers lightly, as if they were discussing the weather. "I'm done with my business here, time to move on."

This is surprising, and _not_ in a good way. "Business? Are back in your game, then?" He hopes his voice doesn't betray the hurt he's feeling: if it does, Irene pretends not to notice.

"Not exactly," she says instead in a slow, lazy tone that suggests she isn't telling him anything of real importance. "I've changed the profile of my activities, though I still listen to what the people tell me, find out what they like and make use of it, to break it all down. Right now my interests lie in the economy, finance, and investments. It's all quite fascinating, once you really look into it."

He raises one eyebrow and takes a long gulp, the wine gently teasing his taste buds. "Is it something our mutual friend would be interested in?"

"You mean Jim? Heavens, no! One needs to devote lots of time to it, to be patient and plan ahead for everything to work out properly. He prefers more… dynamic areas of influence."

"Then who is it? Who are you working for?"

She shrugs, clearly amused by his impatience. "Myself, most of the time. I much prefer freelancing than answering to some mediocre man with a cartload of complexes hidden in his wardrobe, thank you."

He puts the mug down, both hands touching warm porcelain, much like hers are, and fixes a long, steady gaze on her face. She may look tired, but she's definitely stronger, more self-confident and harder to crack than when he'd seen her last. This Irene Adler wouldn't need him to save her from the Karachi partisans.

She would never get caught in the first place.

She is looking at him, too, and her eyes are warm and soft, unlike the set of her lips. "You've lost weight," she observes nonplussed, and it sounds like something an overprotective mother would say to her daughter living alone in college dorm, or perhaps a concerned girlfriend to her overworked boyfriend.

"I'm still wearing the same clothes," he points out dryly. She shakes her head, a strand of hair escaping the knot and coming to rest against her right cheek.

"You look thinner," she insists. "Your skin is tighter; now I'd be sure to cut myself if I…"

She reaches out, the fingertips of her left hand almost brushing his cheekbone, and breath catches in his throat.

She stops, hand hanging in midair millimetres away from his skin. She looks into his eyes, searching, questioning his intentions, but doesn't move a muscle.

Slowly, Sherlock raises his left hand, and catches the stray strand of Irene's hair between his thumb and forefinger. He leans forward to put it back behind her ear, and leans his face gently against her fingers: first point of touch.

In the low light, he cannot say if her pupils are dilating to accommodate to the darkness, or if there's another reason for it. Dismissing the thought, he concentrates on the feeling of her skin—cool, delicate and soft—and hair—thick and silky—where he can reach it. "You'd better watch out then, Miss Adler," he whispers, embarrassed to hear his voice come out husky and raw, "or you might hurt yourself."

This is finally what they've been doing those past few months: teasing, testing, provoking the other party to react, to bare themselves in front of the other. The thrill of the chase, of circling around each other for so long—it all comes down to this: to small, gentle touches in a darkened hotel room, to the way Irene looks at him from under her eyelashes, her eyes almost black.

"Sometimes the anticipated pleasure is worth coping with a little pain first, Mr. Holmes," she replies, her voice a quiet, sensual murmur.

"Is this one of such occasions?" He has an inexplicable urge to rub his face against the hand touching it, like a cat begging to be stroked, and bites his lower lip to fight it off. Irene smiles: a real, beautiful smile that makes her appear younger, more delicate, and (he has to admit it, even though he'll never say it out loud) heart-warmingly beautiful, and pulls away, brushing her fingers against his lips as she goes.

"One could only hope," she says softly, and is about to say something more…

The electronic alarm clock built into the stove starts beeping.

Irene jumps up from the stool and presses a combination of keys to turn it off. When she turns back to Sherlock, her face is calm, but closed, impassive, all signs of tenderness he'd detected earlier gone without a trace.

"I'm sorry to rush you, but I really need to go to sleep soon," she says in a business-like tone, not meeting his eyes. "I have a plane to catch early in the morning."

"Of course," he says immediately, standing up and brushing at the almost invisible wrinkles on his shirt, trying to mask his annoyance at being dismissed like a naughty schoolboy. "It was nice to see you," he tells the carpet, too embarrassed of his feelings—disappointment, anger, confusion, frustration—to look Irene in the face.

"Likewise," she answers warmly, and when he finally looks up at her, she has a small, gentle smile on her face. "I hope we'll see each other again, Mr. Holmes. And then, there are always emails, are there not?"

"Precisely," he straightens up his back, transforming all the unwanted emotions into an armour against her and the world of feelings he clearly doesn't need. "Try not to get yourself into trouble—and by that I mean also not standing in my way, professionally speaking."

She lets out a short, forced chuckle that sounds extremely false to his ears. "Are you saying you'd hand me over to the Yard without as much as a second thought? Is that what one does to one's friends?"

"I wasn't aware we were _friends_ , Miss Adler."

It's a challenge, and she knows it, he can tell from the proud set of her chin, the coldness in her eyes. "No, we're not," she replies, and walks past him to the door, taking down the chain, unlocking it. "Goodnight, Mr. Holmes."

He takes the cue and gives her a deep, respectful nod as he passes her. "Till our next meeting, Miss Adler."

He can hear the sharp, metallic clicks of the locks as he walks down the hall.

He wonders idly if it was an actual alarm she'd set, say, in the morning, or whether she turned it on as she was preparing the wine, to time their conversation and make sure it was properly short.

* * *

The cabby that takes him home is extremely talkative, going on and on about some political scandals, stock exchange movements and other things he doesn't give a damn about. By the time he opens the door to 221B, all Sherlock wants is to get into bed, which he does, not bothering to shower or brush his teeth.

The house is eerily quiet: Mrs. Hudson's asleep, and John hasn't come back from the stag party yet; Sherlock crawls between his sheets, naked, and tries to find the most comfortable position, his train of thoughts finally slowing down, pushing all memories of Irene Adler to the depths of his conscious mind.

He's almost asleep, his breathing deep and even, when he hears the doors downstairs open.

Then there's silence, forced, unnatural silence, and somebody's walking slowly up the stairs: must be John, trying to be as unassuming as possible to hide the actual extent of his drunkenness. A typical behaviour of those who drink sporadically, but when they do, they take their poison with buckets, Sherlock thinks, and proceeds with clearing his mind of all thoughts, again.

The steps pause in front of his bedroom door. Curious.

The doorknob turns, and the movement of air brings a whiff of aroma to his nostrils.

Liquorice and chocolate.

His eyes open in the darkness, the only part of him that moves, his whole body tense like a bowstring.

Suddenly sleep is the very last thing on his mind.

**TBC…**


	3. Chapter 3

She stands in the doorway for a long while, not hesitating, just listening.

He simply lies in his bed, still not moving, feeling her out, approximately twenty seven ideas as to why she came here swirling in his head.

The door downstairs opens and slams against the wall. This time it _is_ John, and apparently he's too drunk to care about keeping it quiet. Given his current state, it should take him approximately forty eight seconds to get upstairs.

Sherlock sits up, looking expectantly at the woman on his doorstep—her hair is loose and slightly damp, she's holding a pair of sneakers in one hand and wearing a leather jacket over some dark clothing that looks like a combination of a nightgown, a hoodie, and a nun's dress—and says the first thing that comes to his mind: which is, _accidentally_ , the exact quotation of her greeting to him earlier this evening: "Are you going to come in?"

She smirks at him, dropping the shoes and the jacket to the floor. "Perhaps I'd better."

He can hear John stumbling up the stairs, grumbling and cursing him for leaving the party so early, and knows that nothing is going to stop him from entering his bedroom—and then Irene pulls that funny dress-like thing over her head and stands before him, the way she did when he saw her for the very first time.

He would gladly take this opportunity to recall all the emotions that'd run through him at that first sight of her body so long ago: only now she closes the door, and jumps onto his bed, pushing him back into the pillows.

"What _are_ you doing?" he hisses (pulse elevated to approximately one-hundred-and-forty beats per minute, impossible as it may seem), but she simply clasps a hand over his lips and slides under his sheet, lying on her stomach, facing away from the door.

"Try to pretend you're asleep a little better than a moment ago," she whispers, and throws one arm across his chest, hip brushing his as she arranges her body into an image of a post-coital snuggle.

He takes the cue, and relaxes against the pillows, raising one hand to cover hers where it's resting, a little lower than his heart, his other arm awkwardly embracing her shoulders.

She's quite small, compared to him. Delicate bone structure, yet by no means fragile.

Her skin is soft, smooth, and cool to touch.

It feels like a red hot branding iron against his own.

The door creaks open, and John's voice, thick and slurry and carrying the stench of the booze, resonates across the room. "Sherlock, what the f… Oh, God, sorry, mate!" Irene murmurs something and snuggles closer, her head now resting under Sherlock's arm, forcing him to rest his hand lower on her back, some parts of her anatomy brushing his in quite distracting a manner. John stumbles, and as Sherlock lifts one eyelid, pretending to be half-asleep and completely exhausted from some amorous activity or other, he can hear his roommate apologize and quietly step out of the room, closing the door with a soft click.

They stay like this a moment longer, listening to John moving around the kitchen, probably looking for some anti-hangover pills or aspirin; Irene's breath tickles his pectoral muscles and his right nipple hardens: damn the involuntarily physical reactions! He tries to inch away, to put some space between their bodies, but it's no use: he seems to be feeling her all over himself, her breasts pressing against his side, her long, slender leg tangled with his. She moves the hand resting on his chest up a bit, covering his heart.

He stifles a groan. Now she's the wiser.

"You can check mine," she whispers, puffing hot air over his skin. He promptly slides his fingers down her wrist and takes her pulse, wondering if this time it'd be calm and measured, the exact opposite of his.

What he does find out, however, actually makes him gasp.

Their hearts are beating in sync.

"Cheesy, I know," Irene lifts her head and props her chin on his chest, looking him in the eye through the darkness. "But that's the thing with physiology, Mr. Holmes. We're all just prisoners here, no matter how good we think ourselves to be."

"Did you come here to tell me that?" he asks, desperate to keep the conversation going, so that he doesn't have to concentrate on his… well, _physiology_ might be a nice way to put it.

"Actually, I came because I have found myself unsatisfied by the manner of our parting," she answers, twisting her hand in his grasp so that they are now simply _holding hands_ : a delicate gesture, almost no pressure in it, as if they were separated by countless layers of clothing and gallons of air, not pressed together, naked, under a flimsy sheet. "I thought we might talk some more. I hoped I'd finally get to steal a kiss from you; two at the most." She chuckles and sits up, the friction caused by her skin raising goose bumps on his arms, legs and abdomen. "I never would have thought we'd end up in bed within minutes from my arrival."

"The situation does seem a bit extreme, yes."

She chuckles at that, the matters of safety and discretion laid aside for the moment since John has apparently walked into something and is currently cursing loudly in the kitchen. "Oh, Sherlock," she breathes, and leans over him, her hair falling down and tickling his shoulders, "you do say the sweetest things."

She puts her hands on both sides of his head, her thumbs brushing his earlobes, stroking his neck as she looks at him, just looks, searching his face in the darkness. He's thrilled by the way his name sounds coming from her lips, and reaches out to touch her face, tentatively and slowly: a cheekbone that wouldn't cut him, yet to touch it breaks him a little; the soft arch of her lower lip; the sharp chin and its creamy underside; the elegant column of her neck.

He pauses at her collarbone, tracing it leisurely with his fingers as he feels himself grow harder, a pulse between his legs obscuring the one in his chest—and yet, he's calm, and she's calm; and when she moves to straddle him, knees pressing into his hips but still not lowering herself, not making their contact any more pronounced, he can smell her: the musk and the spices, as if they were still in Pakistan and she'd just bathed herself in some exquisite Eastern perfumes.

This is no perfume, apart from the chocolate and liquorice he can still detect behind her ears and between her breasts; this is the _real_ Irene Adler, and it's all for him.

She moves her hands to his shoulders, steadying herself, but still doesn't make any attempt to _connect_. He's still tracing her collarbone, wondering what it would taste like if he licked it, bit it, marked it with his teeth. His other hand rests on her left hip, unmoving, sticking to her skin with a thin layer of perspiration.

"It would be so simple," Irene whispers, and bends her knees just so, still not touching him where he needs her most. "So simple."

Sherlock hears John switch the kitchen light off and start up the stairs to his bedroom.

He could push her down now with the hand on her hip, pull her to him by the nape of her neck, crush his lips into hers, feel her envelope him completely, cry his release (which would be imminent at this point, he's well aware of that) into her mouth, bite her lips.

And she could simply finish the move she'd started, impale herself on him, throw her head back and scratch her (thankfully, short) nails down his chest, making him emit sounds he'd never had before.

But they don't, because if either of them did, it would mean admitting their weakness, confessing their need for the other, throwing down the towel, giving up, accepting the last and most definite of check-mates.

And as much as they both want this—they also want to have the winning hand in this.

So neither of them pushes or drops, and they simply share a moment, looking at each other through the darkness, their fingers brushing the other's skin to and fro in the smallest of gestures.

"And yet," he whispers after a while, not quite finishing her previous thought, but letting her know he understands precisely what she meant.

She smiles and leans in, kissing the very corner of his mouth. He moves his head just so, and she gives his lips a peck. It's an exquisite feeling, he marvels, freedom and pressure, hotness and bone-chilling cold, and he kisses her back, gently, almost leisurely, content to have their lips touch and communicate the feelings they cannot possibly put into words without losing this game.

Irene pulls away after a second, a minute or an hour, he doesn't know; away and off the bed, taking the sheet with her, dropping it to the floor. She takes him in: the extremely visible effect her body had on him, his whole posture, spread-eagled on the bed; she looks at him, and he lets her, because at this moment he is hers to look at, hers and no one else's.

Of course, admitting it would be losing as well, so he simply closes his eyes and waits, listening to her breathing and then the rustle of fabrics as she puts her clothes back on.

The bed dips under her weight and he opens his eyes to see her already fully dressed, hair hidden under the hood of that ridiculous dress. He makes no attempt to cover himself, and doesn't stop her when she reaches for his hand and squeezes it.

"And yet it would seem, Sherlock, that neither of us wishes to give up just yet."

"So it would."

She gets up and slides on her shoes, before leaning over him one last time and brushing her nose against his. "Tell John you'll have a date for the wedding."

He arches his eyebrow, feeling a rush of adrenaline in every one of his extremities: it's like getting to a new level in a computer game, this power play with her, always a challenge to look forward to. "It's in eighteen days. Will you be able to take care of your business till then?"

"I will manage, don't worry. Just don't give him any names. I'm not sure whom I'll be."

"Do you have that many aliases to choose from?"

"Wouldn't you like to know," she teases, and gives him another kiss, little less than the simplest of touches. "Think of me when I'm gone, Sherlock."

"Good night, Irene," he answers in a low voice, and feels quite smug when he sees her smile. It must have been the first time he'd called her that to her face.

She slips out quietly, her footsteps barely audible. He waits for the sound of the door shutting, and wraps his fingers around his erection.

He doesn't last more than ten seconds—and when he comes, he says her name again, in slightly different a tone than before.

He opens his eyes after a long while, and breathes through his mouth, waiting for his heartbeat to slow down. He gets up, finds a tissue and wipes off his hand, takes a nicotine patch out of the box and sticks it to his arm.

He wonders whether they'd do this again someday—and whether it would become an occasion demanding an actual smoke _after_. Then he thinks about Irene's teeth, and if she ever smokes. And what is that _business_ that makes her leave London.

And, most importantly, how is she going to pull off appearing on John's wedding?

Twenty six minutes later, when he's back in bed and trying to sleep despite the fact that his sheets now smell of _her_ and distract him, his phone vibrates. He reads the message and cannot help but grin.

_Imagine it's an empty one. With my old ringtone._

**TBC…**


	4. Chapter 4

On the following morning he comes to breakfast quite late, wrapped in the sheet that still smells like her.

He always held personal hygiene in high regard, but somehow the thought of taking a shower makes him angry.

John's already there, nursing a large mug of coffee and shielding his eyes from the sun. They share a look, and Sherlock walks into the kitchen to fix himself his own portion of caffeine.

"So, um… care to tell me something more about your friend?" John asks almost shyly once Sherlock's back is turned. "It's just… fancy finding _you_ in bed with a woman; I mean…"

He remembers his conversation with Irene and grunts, "She's not my friend." _And she's not_ a _woman, she's_ the _woman_ , he wants to add, but even John's smart enough to make the connection, despite the alcohol fumes clouding his mind.

"But… will we be seeing her again?"

"I don't know about _you_ ," Sherlock snaps, and smirks at his coffee cup as he puts the sugar in, "but _I_ intend to tell Mary I no longer require her help with finding a date for the wedding."

* * *

_Jane Murray. A post-graduate student of Forensic Medicine, originally of Chester, currently living in Glasgow. We met at Bart's, when I attended a conference in London, bumped into each other again at the pub, and ended up doing the nasty. How does that sound?_

_Plausible enough. Since when are you a fan of the Bronte sisters, though? Stoker, I could sympathize with, although his writing was overly emotional and hysterical._

_Every girl dreams of romance, Sherlock. Well,_ almost _every girl._

 _What do you dream of,_ Miss Murray _?_

_Are you sure you want to know?..._

* * *

It's easier to play when they're apart, to juggle the double meanings in the emails, to hide the true extent of their emotions behind nicely crafted puns and epigrams.

He could perhaps be satisfied with this, had they not shared those few moments in his bedroom. Had she not kissed him.

It's not that he's suddenly _in love_ with her, no, there's nothing sentimental about it. Neither is it entirely physical: his libido hasn't changed either way; he sometimes seeks release the way he used to before (he's only a man in the end, and as such consists, regrettably, of the flesh as well as of the mind), and even if the vision filling his dreams has Irene's face now, it's most probably the result of his brain being fuelled with the images stored by his short-term memory, and nothing more.

At least that's what he keeps telling himself.

What it all comes down to is the mystery. The wonderment. The fact that their relationship, as established over texts and emails, is completely different to the one they seem to have when they're together, face to face and skin on skin, puzzles him to no end.

Is it possible that two such different states occurred simultaneously? Or is only one of them true, and the other could only be perceived as false, illusive and deceptive?

As if it's the latter that is true—which is which?

He can guess all he wants, but this is not something that could be resolved by the means of theoretical musings. This situation requires a hands-on approach.

Which is why he needs to see her. To solve the mystery.

It's not as if he misses her, or anything.

* * *

_Where should I pick you up?_

_Don't worry. I'll come over._

And she does.

They need to be in church at 12:30. The ceremony starts at one; then there's the reception until four, and then John takes Mary to Brighton for a honeymoon weekend, and Mrs. Hudson goes to visit her sister somewhere in the country. It's obviously a ploy designed so that the house would empty, allowing him and his 'not friend' to feel comfortable.

Hadn't it been so painfully obvious, he might even appreciate their efforts.

Be it as it may, he has the theoretical possibility to spend over forty hours alone with Irene Adler.

'Theoretical' being the operative word: he has no idea what her plans for _after_ the reception are, and even if she were to stay at Baker Street there's no saying that they wouldn't decapitate each other within minutes of being left on their own.

Another mystery. Could they actually tolerate the other's company for a whole day? A weekend? Possibly longer?

It could be the greatest experiment he'd ever participated in.

The doorbell rings: 11:35, not a moment too late. He knows she'd opt to spend as little time as possible around John and Mrs. Hudson, but they _do_ have a schedule to work with.

He rushes down the stairs and opens the door, curious as to whom he's about to see.

"Hello, Sherlock, sorry I'm late," she says with a toothy grin, speaking with an accent that's neither Scottish nor Welsh, but a brilliant combination of the two. He all but laughs out at the sight of her: hair curled into an afro (to take the attention away from her cheekbones, dulled even more by carefully applied make-up), large glasses in an alarming shade of fuchsia, some artificial skin around the nose to blur its original shape, and a sensible, beige two-piece with an overly long skirt over an immaculately white shirt. A designer watch, long silver earrings, an ostentatiously big flowery ring on her right hand middle finger. Leather shoes, almost flat. It makes her look like somebody who spends most of their time working and studying science rather than human relations, with a touch of a highly functioning geek on the side.

All in all, an outfit one would _never_ catch Irene Adler wearing.

It could never have fooled _him_ , of course, but it should be more than sufficient for the others.

"Good to see you," he says, because it's expected in a social situation like this, and moves aside to let her in; she stands on tiptoe and presses a fleeting kiss to the underside of his jaw, rubbing her thumb over the spot to get rid of the lipstick. He glares at her, but says nothing.

He notices, however, that she's brought and overnight bag. She'll probably stay at least one night.

He smiles to himself as he follows her up the stairs, the bag in his hand.

John is absolutely thrilled, of course, and goes on babbling senselessly for about three minutes, before Sherlock points out that he really needs to finish getting dressed. That leaves them alone—Mrs. Hudson had said her hellos and promptly made herself scarce, blessed woman—standing in his sitting room, looking at each other and trying very hard not to burst out laughing.

"Stop smiling, it doesn't suit you," she quips in the end, adjusts her glasses. "I might even think you're glad to see me."

"What if I told you I was?"

"Honestly, Sherlock, the best man is supposed to stay sober until _after_ the ceremony."

He gives her a lopsided grin, and puts his hands in his pockets. "I'm amazed at their short-sightedness. It never even occurred to them it might be you!"

"Well, I _am_ supposed to be dead, you know. Besides, not everyone has such remarkable aptitude for observation as you do. Now, get dressed, we should be going soon."

"I am dressed."

She frowns at him with visible disgust. "Are you telling me you're going to your best friend's wedding in _this_?"

He looks down at his customary dark shirt and an 'everyday suit' he'd worn the previous day. "Problem?"

This actually earns him an eye roll. "Honestly, Sherlock, I look more like a best man than you do. Now come on, to the bedroom with you."

He steps towards her and arches one eyebrow. "I thought you said I should get _dressed_."

"Cheeky sod," she murmurs, and pushes him towards his room, taking her overnight bag along. "If you're going to take _me_ out as your date, you have to do better than that."

"You're not _really_ my girlfriend, you know."

It is supposed to be yet another quip, another line, but it stops her dead in her tracks. When she looks up and him, her eyes are cool, focused, and perhaps a little hostile. "No, I'm not."

"Then what gives you the authority to talk to me like that?"

They are already in his bedroom, so she pushes the doors closed and catches his hand, not going for his pulse, but simply squeezing his fingers. "You tell me."

* * *

She makes him wear a white shirt instead of the grey one.

He firmly states that he wants to keep the suit, not quite comfortable with undressing almost completely in front of her—and she wouldn't leave the room, that much is certain.

She agrees, in the end, but insists on him wearing a tie. She even finds one in his wardrobe, and claims that its dark green shade accentuates his eye colour.

"I'm _not_ going to do this. It feels like a rope from the gallows."

"Fine, let me, then," she presses and throws the tie around his neck, pulling him towards her and looking him in the eye with the most lewd expression he'd ever seen on her face—and that's really saying something.

_I should have him on a leash. Perhaps I will._

They don't say anything, but they're both probably thinking the same thing.

She ties the knot expertly, and brushes at the front of his shirt as she puts the finishing touches on his clothing. "There. All better."

He's not so sure it is.

* * *

It all goes surprisingly well. John doesn't lose his cool. Mary looks appropriately pretty. Sherlock doesn't say anything offensive to the priest's face, although he does express his feelings at length as soon as he rejoins Irene in front of the church. She smirks at him and lights a cigarette (her 'smoking habit' should keep her outside the reception hall for a quite some time, minimizing the risk of somebody seeing through her disguise, unlike as it may be): an expensive Japanese brand, its filter tip coated with watermelon flavour.

He wonders if the taste is going to linger.

* * *

"So, you're in forensics? Me too," Molly says after the soup plates have been cleared, and the waiters are bringing in the main course (starting from the ladies): steaks with roasted potatoes and baby carrots, apparently one of Mary's favourites. Irene looks up at her and wrinkles her nose.

"Well, yes, I am. Although _I_ stopped doing post mortems long ago. I'm more into lab work now, research and such."

"Really?" one of Mary's aunts sitting opposite them asks, without any interest whatsoever. "What are working on?"

Irene cuts into her rare steak, the reddish juice flowing out and staining her knife. "Liver degeneration. I compare samples taken from long-term alcoholics, and those from people whose parents had had a drinking problem, creating a possibility of hereditary affliction, but they themselves did not." She mouths the meat and licks her lips, before plunging her knife in the steak again. "Fascinating work. I get _so_ excited when I get a new specimen."

The look on the overly-polite lady's face makes Sherlock want to roar with laughter or kiss Irene senseless. Possibly both. Damn this woman!

"Isn't it overly complicated, though? There's prone to be much discolouration, especially in the older ones," he asks, keeping his face completely impassive.

"Depends on the age of the sample." She takes another mouthful and smiles innocently. "Usually they're perfectly preserved, red and juicy."

Their interlocutor turns green, and excuses herself hastily, making her way towards the bathroom. Even Molly looks mildly disgusted.

"This is absolutely wonderful," Irene purrs, and cuts off another chunk of meat. Sherlock's plate is yet to be brought, so she offers it to him on her fork. "Here, have a bite."

He shots her a warning glare, but leans in and eats the meat nonetheless. Another one of Mary's relatives wipes their mouth with a napkin and leaves the table. Molly looks positively crushed.

"Very nice," he nods, approving not only of the meat, but also of her morbid sense of humour. She simply smiles, and goes back to her meal.

Burning the place to the ground has effectively begun.

* * *

John and Mary run out of the building, waving and grinning at the crowd, and Irene hides behind Sherlock as Mary turns to throw the bouquet. He chuckles and looks at her, mocking. "Afraid you might be forced to marry, _Miss Murray_?"

She glares at him, and takes his arm, pulling him away from the cheering crowd. "There's a saying that the lady who catches the bouquet will most probably be married to the gentleman accompanying her at the time. I'm simply trying to protect you."

"As if," he mutters, but lets himself be dragged in the general direction of the taxi rank.

* * *

He's almost sure she'd have him pinned against the wall in the corridor as soon as the door closes behind them.

Which is why he's almost humming with frustration after they'd been back on Baker Street for two whole hours, and absolutely _nothing_ has happened.

He's in the kitchen when she comes into the room after taking a shower and removing her make-up, wrapped in his robe and holding a packet of cigarettes in her hand. She opens the window and sits on the sill, pulling one leg close to her chest. "Fancy a drag?" she asks and lights one, licking her lips to taste the watermelon. He walks over and leans against the window frame, looking down at her, squint-eyed.

"I don't smoke."

"So I've been told." She shrugs and looks out to the empty yard. "It's all for the better, though—that's my last one." Another lick.

"Any good? I vaguely remember smoking flavoured cigarettes some time ago, they were absolutely disgusting."

She inhales the smoke and stands up, leaning into him, lips almost, but not quite, touching. Slowly, she exhales, and the smoke fills his mouth while he in turn inhales it, bringing his face closer to hers.

He turns his head to the side and lets the smoke out of his lungs, then looks back at her with a grin. "We're not poor college students, you know. We don't have to share."

"But it's much more fun this way." Her lips linger close to his; he can smell the watermelon, and knows it would take but one quick flick of his tongue to taste her…

He also knows it wouldn't be enough.

From the look in her eyes, he can say she's equally affected by all this. "Are you ready to give up?"

"Are _you_?"

"Never."

"How would you feel about a temporary armistice, then?"

"On what conditions?"

She shrugs, and flicks the cigarette out of the window; he watches it spiral down. "Nobody wins, nobody loses. We set up the time, we play, we go back to where we left off."

He reaches out and pulls at the belt holding her robe together. She puts her hands on his chest, scratches it gently through the shirt. He touches the skin over her navel with his fingertips. "I don't think an armistice would suffice, Irene."

She shakes her head and frowns, undoing his tie but keeping it around his neck. "Do you have any counter-proposal, Sherlock?"

"We agree that we both lost round one, and pick it up… say, thirty-seven hours from now."

"A rematch?"

"A revenge."

"Retaliation."

"Precisely."

"What if it proves as inconsequential as the first?"

"We may have to keep on playing."

Her eyes glint mischievously. "It does sound reasonable."

"Good."

He pulls her to him, hands finding their way under the robe and pressing against her back. She bites his lips furiously, and twines her fingers in his hair, pulling hard, as if she's trying to punish him for making her weak like this. Perhaps she is.

They claw at each other, clothes flying off in every direction as they move towards his bedroom. He has her pinned against the door and writhing in anticipation as he finally fulfils his fantasy of licking her collarbone. She has him flat on his back on the bed mere seconds later.

The first time is fast, hard and wild, leaving them both bruised and hurting, muscles spasming as they finally let go and lie down on the sheet, breathing loudly, looking at each other with slightly dazed eyes. Sherlock reaches out and brushes his knuckles against Irene's breast, down her side, over her hip and to her knee, then back again. She pushes his hair behind his ear, arches into his touch, rolls them over and stretches her body over his, head resting in the crook of his neck. "Much less of a virgin than I thought, you."

"If I didn't know you any better, I might have thought I'd managed to impress you."

"Beginner's luck, that's all."

"Oh, really?" his fingers delve into her heat, stroking experimentally, but without hesitation, learning the angles and pressure points. She bites his shoulder and pushes his hand away, rising above him.

"What did you think?" she asks, and he knows she doesn't mean the twenty-two minutes and several seconds they'd just spent screwing each other's brains out, but the night from three weeks ago, when they were both too stubborn to even consider the possibility of defeat. He smirks and pulls her down, feeling quite smug when she gasps at the contact.

She rolls her hips, and his smirk turns into a moan. "That it would never be easy, not with you."

"Do you wish it was?" she picks up the tempo, and he sits up to embrace her, lean her backwards, lick the top of her right breast, pull at her hair.

"What would be the fun in that?"

* * *

There's a considerable amount of variety in everything they do, since both of them seem to have devoted a lot of thought to the possibility of finding themselves in this situation, together.

They sleep a little, until Irene grumbles that she cannot possibly _sleep_ with another person, and goes out to buy some cigarettes. They smoke together afterwards, sharing, and watch the news and argue over some evident mistakes the newsreader makes; then he takes her against the wall, one of her hands grasping the mantelpiece, the other clawing at his back.

He plays the violin for her as she sprawls on his armchair, naked and radiant and bruised from his lips in the most extraordinary places. She listens intently and walks over to him, dropping to her knees. "Don't stop," she commands, and he doesn't—for as long as he can.

Afterwards, he wishes he'd recorded the music. He could use the money from a bestseller album.

* * *

She comes back to bed shortly before dawn, snuggles next to him the way she did on the night John almost caught them. "My plane leaves at three PM," she murmurs into his shoulder. He sighs and puts his arms around her, holding her until she sleeps.

* * *

She puts 'Miss Murray' back on before leaving, and refuses when he offers to accompany her to the airport. Both of them know very well he didn't really mean it.

"I'll be seeing you," she says, and kisses him lightly before walking out of his house, but not his life.

Three days later there's news on the telly of some businessman committing suicide after losing considerable amount of money on shady investments. The death itself is quite straightforward, and the police close the investigation within a week.

Sherlock stays up that night, sticking fresh nicotine patches to his arm every two hours, and waits for an email, a text, a sign.

Nothing happens.

And that's how he knows the game's back on.

**TBC…**


	5. Chapter 5

He tries to keep track of her exploits, but it's not always easy, what with the companies closing down and people killing themselves anyway because of the crisis.

Yet he does pick up some hints if he looks for them: subtlety, finesse, grandeur. A touch of a feminine hand.

He knows she's still out there, having a ball.

It's been eight months, and not a single message appears in his inbox.

* * *

He decides to go after Moriarty in the end, the whole situation getting way out of hand. Mycroft manages to obtain some intelligence that turns out to be mildly useful, something about a 'villain lair' in Switzerland. He packs his bags, books a ticket, and tells everyone he's going on a holiday. John suspects something, of course he does, and insists he'd tag along. He shrugs and snorts. "Do as you wish, but remember this wasn't my idea."

The night before their departure, his phone vibrates. _Don't go there._

 _Why do you even care?_ , he replies, angry and disappointed and _angry_ , mostly at himself for being so affected by this.

_I just do._

He doesn't answer, and she doesn't press on the matter.

* * *

They fly to Zurich, then take a train to Luzern, hoping to get some more information before continuing down to Meiringen. It's easy to lose John in the winding alleys or down by the waterfront, to smoke a contraband cigarette—or seven—and think about what he's about to do. Moriarty needs to be stopped, that much is certain. The price… well, all the important things in life seem to come with a price tag attached, don't they?

It takes him nine days to find out everything he needs to know.

On the tenth day, he gets up at five and walks to the train station, hoping to catch the first train to Meiringen. Just before boarding, he sends a text, and smashes his phone against a stylish rubbish bin made of iron.

* * *

It takes him quite some time to catch up with Moriarty, to lead him away from the hotel he'd been staying in, into the woods, close to the scenic attraction of the place, a picturesque waterfall. He's tired, and Moriarty is too, although neither of them would ever admit it.

They spar verbally, and when this doesn't work, fling themselves at one another, blows, punches, kicks and twists, everything he knows in theory, but hates in practice.

They're hanging on the edge, and pause long enough to exchange vicious looks and sad, knowing smiles.

"So this is it."

"Hell yes."

And then he pushes, and the other man pulls, and they stumble down, down, down, stars, moons and nebulas flashing in front of his eyes.

" _SHERLOCK!"_

John's voice. He really _is_ quite perceptive—and late.

Too late.

* * *

His first assessment after he regains consciousness is: this cannot be the afterlife, unless the air of whichever imaginary dimension he'd found himself in is one of extremely stuffy and heavy quality. He tries to open his eyes, but his eyelids are far too heavy. His limbs feel wooden, heavy and stiff, and he cannot move, try as he might.

"Don't do anything," a voice says next to his right ear. "You might tear the stitches, and I don't have any more anaesthetic."

A moist swab touches his lips, and he gratefully licks them, opens his mouth. "H-how lo…"

"Four days, seven hours, and forty-three minutes. Now go back to sleep."

He'd rather ask some more questions, get more answers—but the exhaustion takes its toll, and he falls back into a dreamless pit.

* * *

It's easier when he wakes up next: the pain is still the most overpowering sensation he feels, but there's some clarity as to his condition and general whereabouts returning slowly with every passing minute.

He can count at least six broken bones, but there's bound to be more; he's got a splitting headache and is nauseated. The room is hot and stuffy, dust particles irritating his nostrils. Wooden walls, sloping roof and simple furniture suggest a mountain lodge or a cottage of some kind. There's a clock on the nightstand, its hands reading twenty minutes to eleven, in the morning judging from the grey, dispersed light coming in through the only window. A bunch of bandages and a cluster of pills; some syringes and glass vials—somebody seriously injured has been treated in this room, and he's positively sure that 'somebody' is him.

The door opens with a creak. "You're finally awake."

She is paler and thinner than when he'd seen her last. Her hair is longer, flowing loosely down her back. She's wearing simple, bleak clothes: soft fabrics in several shades of grey, sturdy shoes, no jewellery or make-up. Just a clean, thoughtful face, lips pressed into a thin line.

"You were out for eight days," she says as she stands by the bed and checks his forehead for fever. "Delirious, most of the time. In case you were wondering: left femur and humerus broken, three ribs cracked, ruptured spleen, and a concussion. You were incredibly lucky, Sherlock."

"How did you…?"

She shrugs and sits down on the bed, fingers picking at a lose thread in his blanket. "I simply had to watch Jim's movements. I knew you'd follow him anywhere."

"I thought you no longer worked for him."

"I didn't. I don't. But that doesn't mean I didn't keep in touch."

"I see."

"Besides, that text of yours—'Goodbye, Miss Adler': did you really think I wouldn't catch up on that…?" She's still looking down, face impassive. "Dr Watson left yesterday," she says after a long pause, "but I'm sure some of your brother's people are still around. Would you like me to place an anonymous call?"

He shakes his head, frowning. "Moriarty?"

"They found him the day before yesterday."

He detects sadness in her voice. "Would you rather have it the other way 'round?"

She looks at him coolly, her face contorting into a bitter grimace, before standing up and tearing up a disposable syringe package. "I like you better when you're asleep."

So sleep he does, the drug she injects him with making him drowsy within seconds.

* * *

She feeds him, washes him, changes the dressings on his wounds like a professional nurse. Cold. Impassionate. Unattached.

They don't talk much. She relates to him the progress of the investigation of his presumed death, informs him about the changes in his body, the speed of the recovery. Sometimes she brings him newspapers, mostly German, and translates the more complicated passages if he asks her to.

Sometimes he can hear her, walking around the cottage in the evenings, or sitting in the room next to his, watching the telly.

He sometimes wonders whether she'd come to him if he called.

He never does.

* * *

Four weeks later, a doctor comes in—some local fellow, keeping quiet most of the time and grumpy when he's not—and removes the plaster from his arm. "The leg needs another three weeks," he informs him, and Sherlock wants to hurl things across the room in frustration.

Irene comes back into his room after seeing the doctor out, and stands at the feet of his bed, arms folded across her chest. "I have a prepaid mobile, bought it last month, the account is clean. Would you like to call somebody?"

He shakes his head, avoiding her gaze. "What for?"

"There are people looking for you. Worrying about you. _Caring_ about you."

"So?"

It's her turn to shake her head. "Let me put it another way: it's a smart phone. You could always download some games."

"Those are dull, and unimaginative. Don't you have anything? Chess, perhaps?"

She finds two mismatched sets of Scrabble stuck in some faraway corner of the cottage. He makes a new, bigger board, and cuts the missing letter out of some cardboard. Two days later, they play for the first time, Irene sitting cross-legged on his bed, her knee resting against his blanket-covered thigh.

Both of them try to go for words like 'insufferable', or 'pretentious', or something equally charming.

He wins the first game by three points, loses the second by four.

* * *

"I need to leave next week. I have work to do."

"Fine."

She puts 'advant' before his 'age' (he's had rotten luck with letters this time). "I'm not sure what to do with you."

He doesn't even have to think to lay down 'dis'. "What are the options?"

Irene leans down to pick up a wine bottle she'd left on the floor (she firmly refuses to let him drink, claiming it might have some undesirable side-effects on his drug-fuelled body) and takes a long gulp, not bothering with a glass. "One, I could leave you here. Restock the fridge, chop down some wood for the fireplace. You _should_ be alright, it's only for a week or so. Only—it's you, so you would probably get into some kind of trouble the first night I was gone, and I'd have a cripple or a cadaver to deal with after I got back."

"Which brings us to option number two."

"I take you with me. You stay out of harm's way, let me do my thing, and enjoy the weather."

"There's also a third one: I go with you, sabotage your plans, get you arrested and go back to England a hero."

She nods, contemplating the board. "There's that, too. Which would it be?"

He loses the game by two points.

* * *

It's not _that_ much different from being locked away in some God forsaken cabin, he muses as he nibbles on pieces of apple, mango and melon, sitting in a comfortable armchair by a large window overlooking the sea. Irene's been gone most of the time, coming and going as she pleases, changing from a power-suit into a cocktail dress, a bikini ("They have a lovely indoor pool, you should try it someday"), a full-length evening gown. He simply sits on the bed, in the armchair, in the tub, his leg properly elevated, pouts, and waits for her.

Naturally, he can deduce everything about the people she meets (a divorced CEO of an international bank, heavy smoker; a gay purchasing manager in charge of business on the Far East from a well known electronic corporation, cat lover; _et caetera, et caetera_ ), the reasons behind the meetings and so on, but it no longer satisfies him. After all, this is no real work, no actual mystery.

He's bored, frustrated, and his leg itches. He wonders if he could take the plaster off, scratch until it stops, and then re-plaster the limb himself, just for the fun of it.

On the fifth night he finally explodes.

Irene's been gone for the better part of the day, came back to have a completely silent dinner with him, and is currently getting ready to leave for a final banquet with her 'customers'. Sherlock sits on the bed, surrounded by loose pages from so local newspapers (he's trying to learn a new language, anything to kill the time), crumpling some of them into tight balls, and throwing them against the wall.

"It's no use, and you know it," he yells at the closed bathroom door. "The 'business' is a bust: you may try all you want, but no funds shall be transferred to that secret account of yours, they're far too cunning for that."

"What do you suggest, then?" she yells back at him over the buzz of a hairdryer.

"Skip the banquet. Order room service. I'm bored."

"And I should answer to you every whim… why, exactly?"

"Because you're responsible for my wellbeing."

She laughs out loud at that, and turns the hairdryer off. "Good one, Sherlock. I'm not your girlfriend; in fact, I'm not even your _friend_. I gave you an opportunity to go back to your life; several ones, if I recall correctly. You opted to stay—and _now_ you're telling me you're bored?"

"Well, I am. Bored enough to seriously consider selling you to whichever government pays best."

"Don't be such a baby." Rustles, clicks and whispers of fabric suggest she is in fact planning to ignore his plea and proceed with that _stupid_ dinner. He's bloody jealous now: not of _her_ , and certainly not of the attention she gives to those pathetic little men—but of the _life she leads_ , of the danger, the excitement, the constant surges of adrenaline.

He's an addict, deprived of his favourite drug. And she wouldn't give him the only thing that might calm him down a bit: bickering, discussions, arguments, intellectual stimuli.

She walks out of the bathroom, pinning the last lock of her hair in place, and he's forced to correct the last statement: there's one other thing that could, perhaps, take his mind off his hopelessly dull existence.

The dress she wears is a long sleeved, tight fitting, floor-length assembly of blood-red sequins, catching the light as she moves purposefully around the room. And when Irene turns to pick up a bottle of perfume, he realizes that the gown is backless, showing off the milk white skin that reflects the light even better than the shiny fabric.

"Are you _that_ desperate to close the deal?" he asks hoarsely, knowing very well that he'd lost the next round.

"Maybe I just wish to indulge the fantasies of men who actually _appreciate_ the way I look." She comes over to the nightstand, rummaging through the drawer to find her lipstick, and Sherlock reaches out to place one hand on her back, drag his nails down the cool, soft skin.

"What makes you think that I don't?"

She turns to face him fully, and puts one knee on the bed, leaning back and into his hand. "Do you?"

* * *

There's a tear on the side of the dress up to her hip by the time they're finished with each other. The white bed linen is covered with sequins, and the skin on Irene's back now bears long, reddish marks from Sherlock's nails.

He cannot see the side of his neck, but from the way it itches he deduces it's probably turning red, possibly purple.

Irene actually snuggles this time, her hand on his chest, fingers idly circling his nipple. He smoothes one finger down her spine, and she hisses as he irritates the broken skin. "That hurt, you know."

"What's a little pain, compared to the knowledge that you've won?"

She laughs bitterly and sits up, still playing with his nipple. "Have I? I would have thought leaving you here all hot and bothered was a much better way to handle this."

He frowns, pushing her hair away, tracing the lines of her neck and shoulders. "What's the score, then?"

She slowly shakes her head. "I'm not sure we're still playing, Sherlock."

And he suddenly realizes that she's right, which is the most disconcerting thought he'd had since Switzerland. "What does it mean?"

"Probably that you'll be leaving me sooner rather than later. Going back to your own life, as much as you despise the thought right now. We could never do this normal, domestic thing; we're not made for this."

"Do you ever wish we were?"

She stands up, takes the dress (or rather what has once been a dress) off, and crawls back into bed, into his arms. "What would be the fun in that?"

* * *

It takes them surprisingly long to actually drive each other mad.

Perhaps it's all thanks to the fact that, as soon as his plaster comes off, Sherlock is back to his old antics, nosing around the internet and playing God to the police in the majority of the European countries. Perhaps it's because Irene spends as much as six months per year travelling around the world, doing God (and Sherlock) knows what.

Perhaps it's the thrill they still feel at the touch of the other's skin, the taste of their arousal, the look on their face as the ecstasy consumes them.

Or the fact they can no longer end their Scrabble games in anything else but a tie, and they _do_ love to play for win.

In the end, though, it becomes apparent that some relationships work better when they have an expiration date on them, and are ended before they turn completely sour and rotten.

He waits for her to come back from yet another escapade, his suitcase packed, a train ticket tucked safely into the inner pocket of his jacket. He sits in his armchair (the one that easily fits them both, especially when she's straddling him and there are not unnecessary clothes separating them) and smokes, thinking of the lazy mornings and hectic nights, about heated quarrels and equally fervent apologies, about the way she finishes his sentences for him, and the easiness with which he can predict whether her next scam will be successful or not.

They grew accustomed to one another.

They're also highly skilled at not talking to each other for days, inflicting wounds with purposefully hurtful words, and blaming the other for all the evil in the world.

It's an everlasting seesaw, never stopping, swinging them high and dropping them down within seconds.

And as much as he enjoys the highs, Sherlock knows the lows will soon murder all the pleasure of being with Irene.

Which, frankly speaking, he couldn't possibly take.

She probably feels the same, because when she opens the door and sees him sitting in the armchair with his knees pulled up to his chest, she simply smiles and drops her suitcase to the floor, her coat and the rest of the clothes following closely.

"So it's a goodbye," she says, climbing onto his lap and undoing the zipper of his jeans. "Better make it count."

He does every single thing she likes, and she returns every favour eagerly and thoroughly.

Afterwards, they stay in the armchair and smoke, her back against his chest, her hair tickling his nose. "You're going to miss me," she says, and he nods, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

'I won't be the only one."

"No. No, you won't."

"Will you be coming to London anytime soon?"

"Perhaps. Should I give you a call?"

He smirks and turns her in his arms, capturing her upper lip between his, biting down gently. "Text me. I'll see what I can do."

* * *

Everyone's positively ecstatic to have him back. It's tiresome, it's irritating, and it makes his ego grow even bigger.

"Weren't you lonely, though?" John asks him on the third night after his 'triumphant return'; they sit in the pub where John's bachelor party took place, the whole 'old gang': John and Mary, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Mycroft, of course, and Molly, very pregnant and very happily married Molly who still looks at him as if he were a big piece of chocolate cake. "After all, you didn't have any friends to help you out, did you?"

His phone vibrates in his pocket, but he doesn't check the message, not just yet. She would probably make him go and meet her somewhere, and they would freak out and put surveillance on him, and everything would go to hell.

"No, absolutely no friends. But I guess it was alright."

(And anyway, if he doesn't answer, she might simply come over to 221B. He kind of missed his own bed.)

**The End**


End file.
